


Life Is Change

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hobbits, Post-Quest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7042366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ring has gone, and taken a large piece of Frodo with it.  Can he go on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Frodo, Rosie or Sam. I do not own the Shire or Rivendell. JRR Tolkien owns the lot and I’m only borrowing. I hope he will forgive me if I mangle them a little. I’m not making any money out of it.

Frodo rolled over, punching the pillow and pulling the covers closely about his shoulders. It was early September and it had been unseasonably frosty all day, the air filled with the musky scent of damp loam and horizons shrouded in light mist. In the little hearth of his room the fire was dying and he did not have the energy to get up to add more wood. He should have stoked it up before retiring, (Sam had obligingly filled the log basket,) but he had felt so weary that it had taken all his strength to undress and fall in to bed. 

According to the clock on the mantle he had slept for an hour before being startled out of sleep by another nightmare. He lay with his heart hammering and ears straining to hear whether he had awoken anyone else with his cries; calming a little when he heard no footsteps in the hall, no tap at his door. That was four hours ago and he had tossed and turned ever since. The same pattern had repeated itself for weeks now and he knew that Sam and Rosie were growing concerned for him. It had reached the point where only total exhaustion could tip him into sleep and too many times he awoke with screams that roused the rest of the small household.

Feeling too restless to lie there any longer he sat up, deciding that he may as well write a little more. Across from his bed he caught site of himself in his dresser mirror. He had not bothered to draw the curtains and a full moon nearly filled the round window, like the inverse iris of some huge eye. He shuddered as the image of another eye, crimson with flame, invaded his mind, and chose instead to focus upon the hobbit in the mirror, rather than the window reflected behind him. 

Frodo Baggins did not recognise the person that stared back at him. He had never been a particularly chubby hobbit but now he looked positively emaciated. Some of the weight he had lost in Mordor had not returned, despite the best efforts of Sam and Rosie to fatten him up. More recently, his appetite had faded with his sleep, and he had lost the few pounds that he had managed to regain. The night’s restless tossing had turned his hair into a veritable crows-nest and a stray moonbeam glinted upon a few grey strands amongst the brown. He accepted their presence without rancour, chalking it up as just another fact of his new existence, even though he knew he should not be going grey at his age. He hesitated to call his present existence, 'life'.

The face that looked at him from the glass was not that which had smiled back so merrily two years before. The high cheekbones which had created rosy apple like cheeks when he laughed now only served to stretch the pale skin tighter, emphasising the hollows at his jaw that looked almost skull like in the moonlight. The eyes were the eyes of a stranger. Once the deep blue of a bright summer sky, they were now blank and flat, faded as though too many tears of harsh weather had washed the colour away.

He dragged his gaze away and considered, once again, getting up and trying some more writing in Bilbo’s book. That would mean going to the study, for it was on his desk, where he had been working that afternoon. Remembering where he had got to in the tale, he decided that this hour of the night was perhaps not the best time to be writing about the ash fields of Mordor. Another part of his mind scoffed at the thought. Was this hour any different to any other hour these days? Frodo marvelled that his body could feel so weary and yet his mind so wide awake.

In the alcove by the fireplace was a small desk and upon it sat his diary. It had been a present from Lord Elrond, slipped to him on the morning of the hobbit’s departure from Rivendell. The healer had suggested that writing his thoughts down may help him come to terms with them. At the moment that idea did not seem to be working, possibly due to the fact that he had not opened it for at least two weeks. Well, he was wide awake now and there was nothing else to do.

He lit a candle and slipped out of bed, pulling on his dressing gown against the chill, he paused to add a log to the fire and attack the embers with a poker. Picking up the candle he padded across the room and sat down. Rosie had apparently been tidying again and Frodo sighed as he searched for pen and ink, finally opening the drawer and finding them set neatly at the front. Pausing, his hand hovering over the ink bottle, he reached instead for a small packet. Drawing it out, he unfolded it and let the contents fall onto the fine red tooled leather of the desk top.

The dried and brittle leaves of loralya lay innocently before him. In one of his darker moods, some weeks before, he had been walking among the trees near Bywater when he had seen the climber, twining innocently up an old sycamore. How this one had escaped the farmer’s notice he could not imagine. When discovered, the plant was always rooted up for its leaves and bark were poisonous, bringing a sleep so deep that a victim’s body shut down as heart beat and respiration slowed and ceased. Frodo had stripped off six of the leaves and stuffed them guiltily in his pocket. 

When he arrived home, however, he had been met at the door by a harassed Rosie. She was trying to get the laundry done but poor Elanor was starting to teethe and the little mite’s cheeks were pink as she whimpered fretfully in her mothers’ arms. She would not be set down, needing the comfort of another. Frodo had rushed to his room, wrapped the leaves in a scrap of old notepaper, and thrown them in the drawer. Then he had returned to try and soothe little Elie while Rosie got on with her work. They had discovered, within hours of the child’s birth, that Uncle Frodo had a knack for calming her and he had not failed them that day. He had carried her to the parlour, where he had sat by the fire, cradling her in his arms and singing softly until she fell asleep. He had sat, mesmerised by her sleeping face for hours, until Sam returned from his business in Michael Delving and carried his daughter away to her crib. 

She had looked so peaceful in sleep. No dark shadows crowded her dreams. No huge shapes crawled across her memory. No flaming eye burned away her intellect, exposing the unclean soul beneath.

Frodo’s eyes refocused on the desk top. The leaves scattered about his maimed right hand were so desiccated that one breath would blow them away. Frodo saw his life within those leaves. He was dried up, bitter and so empty that he hardly weighed upon the world. Picking one up, careful not to crumble it away to dust between his finger and thumb, he held it up before the candle flame. The light shone through it dimly, giving the impression of a beautiful autumn red glow, but when he drew his hand away the leaf was grey and dusty once more. 

He could no longer live within the glow of Sam and Rosie’s love. Their presence gave him a framework, the illusion that he was living his life, but it was a sham, a dim reflection of what life should be. It was time to leave.

Gathering up the loralya he stood by the door for a moment, listening for any sound of wakefulness amongst the other occupants of Bag End. His ears were met only by the occasional pop of wood in a hearth or the creak of panelling, contracting in the cold, early morning air. Candle in hand he slipped down the hall to the back of the smial, where the kitchen was warm from the banked range. He poked the fire into life and set a kettle upon the hob, pulling an earthenware mug and small teapot from the shelf.

 


	2. Chapter 2

At the table he crumbled the desiccated loralya leaves in to the tea pot, marvelling at how they had dried almost to dust within only a few days. As he leaned across the wide wooden table to retrieve the tea strainer in its dish the Lady Arwen’s jewel escaped the neck of his night shirt and pinged against the china rim of the pot. Startled by the sound, he captured it in the inadequate grasp of his right hand and sat down slowly. 

How could he have forgotten it? The crystal tingled in his clenched fist and warmth trickled in to his body and soul, causing him to close his eyes in relief. Even as he did so, however, the cold darkness returned as he recollected another chain, bearing another talisman and his eyes flew open; fleeing from the crimson flames searing his memory. He let the jewel drop and retrieved the kettle, pouring hot water into the tea pot and watching the fragments of loralya swirl as he stirred. Frodo sat down again to wait, absently slipping the chain and jewel back within the confines of his nightshirt. The crystal felt cold against his breast.

Outside, an owl hooted, sailing by on silent wings, seeking prey. The candle gave only a small pool of light and beyond the obsidian glass of the window panes the garden lay still and empty. Frost edged each leaf and set in an icy tomb any flower buds still daring to bring colour and fragrance. All was quiet. Each hobbit was wrapped in cosy dreams of breakfast and bright conversation around their kitchen ranges. And here he sat among the tattered wraiths of his life. 

Did they know the price that had been paid for their cosy dreams and untroubled lives? If they learned the cost would their lives remain cosy? Sam, Merry and Pippin knew, of course, but they had not borne the burden so closely. It had not insinuated itself in to their hearts, wrapped itself around their souls, like the loralya vine around a tree, and strangled their dreams. His hand reached out to the teapot and he set the strainer atop his cup. The tea was a pale greyish green, the fragments caught in the strainer almost black. The smell was sweet, with a slightly sharp edge. He set the strainer back in its dish and sat, staring at the cup.

Could he do it? How could he not? There was no point to the existence he was leading. Arwen and Elrond had suggested that he could leave Middle Earth and perhaps find healing in the Undying Lands. Elrond said that he and Bilbo would be leaving at around the time of the old hobbit’s birthday. That would be soon, now. That’s what he had been telling himself for months: soon. But the days had dragged on and the nights had become longer. Soon was no longer soon enough. He could not face another night. And what if he did not find healing in the Undying Lands? Neither Arwen nor Elrond had made any promises. They had only suggested it as an option. Frodo could not face another birthday. It would be nothing to celebrate.

Frodo watched in fascination as his left hand picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. Memory came of the bitter concoctions pressed upon him by Elrond when he had been recovering from the wounding of the morgul blade. Would he be able to swallow it? He took a careful sip. It was sweet and light, pleasant on his tongue. A smile touched the hobbit’s lips. So much tragedy wrapped up in such sweetness. So much pain wrapped up in a simple band of gold.

He was startled by the distant wail of a baby. Elanor. What if Rosie came to the kitchen to fetch her something? Frodo waited, his ears straining to every sound. For a few minutes he heard the muffled melody of a woman’s voice, singing softly and the wails gradually subsided until hers was the only sound. Then there was silence. Frodo relaxed and concentrated on draining his cup. The liquid was hot, however, and he could not be bothered to get up and add some cold water to it, so he sipped, slowly, blowing away the steam.

He had forgotten how quietly Rosie could move about the smial and he had only half emptied the cup when she stumbled sleepily into the room, absently buttoning her gown.

“Hello, Mr Frodo. Couldn’t you sleep?” She smiled at him, blearily surveying the table and turning to the shelf for a mug. 

Frodo’s heart flopped around in his chest. “No, Rosie. I got up to make a cup of tea and I was just about to take it back to bed with me.” He made to stand and watched in horror as she lifted the tea pot, judging the contents still warm enough, and poured herself a mug. For a moment he was frozen, then, as she raised it to her lips, he whipped his hand across the table and dashed the mug from her, the force of his blow sending it half way across the room, to shatter on the tiled floor.

Rosie cried out and leaped back in surprise, her emotions telling her that she had just been attacked by her friend. After a moment, however, her surprise turned to confusion. Fully awake now, she was no fool and her mind began to piece together the evidence before her. 

Frodo was standing at the other side of the table, his hands guarding a mug. His face was pale and haggard, as it had been for many weeks now. There was a small opened packet on the table and a couple of heart shaped leaves had slipped out of it. She had lived on a farm long enough to recognise the shape. Many summers had been spent, as a girl, helping her father and brothers to strip vines from trees before the cattle could get at them.

Like a startled coney, Frodo stood still as she walked around the table, holding his eyes all the while. Keeping her voice low and her movements slow she came to stand before him, reaching out and retrieving the mug from his now unresisting fingers. Rosie lifted it to her nose and sniffed, her eyes widening as she recognised the sweet smell. 

“What have you done, Mr Frodo?” When he did not reply, she set the cup down and pushed his shoulders, forcing him gently on to the bench. “Mr Frodo, how many leaves did you use?” She shook him gently when he did not reply. 

His eyes focussed on her. “Please Rosie. Let me go. I can’t take any more.” Tears began to well, threatening to spill down his alabaster face. 

Fighting back her own tears, Rosie gave the only reply she could. “I can’t let you go, Mr Frodo, because wherever you go, my Sam will follow and I won’t let that happen.” 

Frodo let out a low moan and dropped his head but she would not leave him alone. Kneeling, she took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “How many leaves did you use?” Her face was hot and yet, inside, she felt as though she had swallowed a bucket of ice water and she was amazed at how calm her voice sounded.

He seemed to take an eternity to answer and Rosie’s fear began to rise as she saw the powerful herb begin to take effect, his pupils growing wider and his body beginning to sag. His voice was barely a whisper, “Three.” 

Relieved that he was at least communicating, she tried again. “Three in a pot and you’ve drunk, what? Half a cup?” 

The reply came more quickly this time although the voice sounded distant. “Yes”.

Rosie stood. She had helped her mother attend a neighbour’s girl who had tried this some years ago but she never thought to go through this trauma again. Running to the pantry for a pot of mustard, she collected a large basin and a mug and returned to a now swaying Frodo. From the kettle she added hot water to a spoonful of mustard and stirred it furiously. She set the bowl on the table and turned him to face it, putting the cup to his lips.

“Swallow, Mr Frodo.” She tipped a little in to his mouth and he pulled away, spitting and gasping. Rosie was as stubborn as her husband, however. With a strength born of desperation she stood behind him, pulling his head back against her breast and pouring half the cup into his open mouth. Then she pinched his nose and covered his mouth until he was forced to swallow. 

Within moments he began to retch, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl. Rosie held his head and tried to comfort him. “It’s alright, Mr Frodo. It’ll be over soon. Sam and Rosie will look after you. Don’t you fret.” When he had finished she wiped his face with a damp cloth and laid his head upon the table. Then she bolted down the hall, tears rolling down her face, yelling for Sam and not caring if she woke Elanor in the process.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Voices. So tired. “Let me sleep.” But they kept prodding him, trying to make him open his eyes. Someone lifted his shoulders, making him sit up. So very weary. “Leave me alone.” Frodo’s mouth was filled with a bitter liquid and he tried to spit it out but they held his mouth shut and someone’s fingers worked at his throat. Perhaps if he swallowed they would leave him alone. They did let him lie down then but the voices continued, keeping him always on the edge of sleep. He felt so cold and tired; as cold as he had been on cruel Caradhras’ slopes.

The world drew slowly into focus and Frodo became aware of his surroundings. To one side was a bedside cabinet with a stack of books. The other half of the top was littered with bowls and bottles of medicines of various shapes and colours. For a moment he thought he was in Rivendell for his body ached everywhere, just as it had then. But this room had a low curved ceiling and the walls were lined with dark wood panelling. It was his bedroom at Bag End. Why did he feel so ill?

“Mr Frodo, can you hear me?” Sam’s voice and the scraping of a chair on the wooden floor. 

Frodo blinked as a hand, holding a face cloth slipped across his vision. The cloth dabbed at his forehead. It smelled of mint and felt good. He tried to change position, so that the owner of the hand came in to view but it took a moment, for his body was slow to obey his instructions and every movement was a trial to his sore muscles. 

“Sam? What happened?” Frodo couldn’t seem to make his tongue work properly and the words came out as a slurred whisper. Sam’s face transformed from concern to relief and he looked up at someone behind his Master. 

“Go fetch Dr Bolger, Rosie. I think he’s in his right mind again.” His eyes returned to his friend’s face as Frodo’s ears registered the familiar snick of his bedroom door opening and closing.

Sam smiled. “Would you like a drop of water? I expect your throat feels a bit sore.” When Frodo nodded, Sam tenderly turned him onto his back and raised his head enough to take a couple of swallows from a cup. The water tasted a little strange but it did soothe his throat. 

The room was dark, although sunshine was prying at the edges of the curtains drawn across the window. His curtains did not usually block out so much daylight and he noticed that someone had draped a thick blanket over the curtain rail. A fire glowed warmly in the hearth and a candle burned on his bedside cabinet, shielded from his eyes by a metal shade. Were it not for the aches and a very sore throat he would have been comfortable, snuggled closely in soft linen sheets and down filled quilts.

The door opened and a round, grey haired hobbit entered. Reaching the bedside, he fished beneath the covers to put fingers to Frodo’s wrist. “Well, now, Master Baggins. How do you feel this afternoon?” His eyes searched Frodo’s face closely.

The Master of Bag End returned the gaze in confusion. “Who are you?” The soreness in his throat made talking difficult so he kept his sentences as short as possible.

The older hobbit smiled. “I am Dr Bolger. Do you remember me from last night?” 

A vague memory of a loud voice, insisting that he wake up and someone pouring horrible liquids in to his mouth surfaced. “Think so. Am I ill?” The sound of a choking sob pulled him back to Sam and Frodo noticed that his friend’s eyes were filled with tears. 

The doctor cleared his throat. “Master Baggins, what is the last thing that you remember?”

He tried to think back. “Going to bed . . . waking up . . . couldn’t sleep . . . wanted to write . . .” His face grew paler as the stream of memories continued. The packet of leaves . . the kitchen table . . . Rosie . . . the broken mug. Frodo moaned and closed his eyes, but the images only repeated, so he reopened them and tried to focus on pushing them away. His heart was thudding and despair rose like a wave, threatening to engulf him. The doctor’s voice came from a long way off.

“Easy, Mr Baggins. Try a deep breath. Stay with us.” Frodo drew in a breath and choked as his lungs were filled with the acrid smell of burnt feather. He pushed away the Doctor’s hand, and the smouldering feather, as the world came crashing back into focus. A deep sob forced its way past the knot in his throat and hot tears began to slide down his face. 

“Why?” 

No-one tried to answer him.

o0o

 

Frodo awoke to the sound of curtains being drawn. “Mornin’, Mr Frodo.” Rosie’s light voice drifted through his awakening haze and he answered automatically. 

“Good morning, Rosie. What time is it?”

“It’s ten o’clock, Sir. The doctor said to let you sleep in this morning.”

Memory surfaced again and Frodo opened his eyes. Rosie was busy collecting cushions from the fireside chairs. When she returned to the bed her face was set calm but he sensed something seething just below the surface.

“Let’s slip these extra cushions behind you so you can sit up and eat your breakfast.” Surprisingly strong, she helped Frodo sit and held him whilst she arranged the cushions for support. When she had settled him to her satisfaction she set a tray on his lap. Frodo stared at the small bowl of porridge and cup of tea set out for him. 

“I’m not very hungry,” came his mournful comment. 

That was the trigger. Rosie’s face changed and the lass drew herself up to her full height, placing her hands on her hips. 

“Now you listen to me, Frodo Baggins. I’ve had enough of this. Have you any idea what you’re doing to me and, more importantly, to my mister?” Her eyes blazed fury but she kept her voice low so that it would not carry beyond the room. 

Frodo swallowed, trying to construct an answer, but he was not given time to speak as rage swept Rosie on.

“Sam and me watch you, day after day, fading away before our eyes and you won’t let no-one help. You’re too proud to ask and you throw any offer right back in our faces.” Again, he tried to deflect her ire but she waved him down. 

“And Sam? Poor faithful, loving, Sam? He cried for full on five hours when I came to fetch him to see to you the other night. He’s a part of you, see. You grew so close on that horrible journey that you became one person. Whatever you do to yourself you do to him too. Can you imagine how this is tearing him apart? He sees you falling away from us and a bit of him falls with you. 

You’re so dear to him that he can’t bear to let you go alone, just as he couldn’t bear to see you go alone to Mordor. And, yet, another part of him sees what he’s got in me and Elanor and he knows it wouldn’t be right to let us go and follow you into madness.” 

Once she had rid herself of the bulk of her well rehearsed tirade, she softened. “That’s where you’re headed you know . . . madness.”

Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand. “Please don’t take my sweet Sam there. He don’t deserve that. Goodness knows, you don’t deserve it neither but it seems you’re bent on taking that path. Please don’t drag my Sam with you. If you’d died the other night he wouldn’t have been far behind. The grief would have done it. He would have lost half of himself, you see? And you know it’s a very beautiful half of him.” She stared deep into Frodo’s eyes, her own brown ones brimming with unshed tears. 

“It’s the part that cares so much about the people around him that it’s willing to give up its own happiness for their sake. It’s the part that loves them so much that it don’t even want to burden them with the knowledge of the debt they owe. It’s the part that feels no bitterness, only sorrow, for the ones that tried to hurt it. Don’t tear that part away from him because he’ll bleed to death.”

Frodo pushed aside the tray and leaned forward, using all of his small reserves of strength to pull Rosie into his arms. She could feel hot tears landing on her shoulder and drew him close. For a while they just clung together, Frodo’s nightshirt gathering up Rosie’s tears while she accepted his. 

“Oh, Rosie. I’m so sorry.” 

She ran a hand soothingly up and down his back. “I’ll forgive you, if you promise never to try that again.” She felt him sigh but there was no promise. Rosie drew back and Frodo’s arms dropped to the coverlet as he sank back amongst the pillows once more. 

“Frodo?” Rosie held her breath, willing him to answer with the words she wanted. But life was not that simple.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Frodo’s voice was hardly more than a pale whisper. “I feel so lost, Rosie. I always thought that if the Shire remained I would have roots. In my imaginings I would either die or return to my old life. Well, I did not die but I cannot return to my old life either. The world does not stand still.” He closed his eyes, squeezing out the last of his tears. “The Shire has changed, Rosie. Saruman saw to that. And I have changed.”

Rosie settled in the bedside chair. “Of course you’ve changed, Frodo. Life is change.” 

He shook his head. “You don’t understand. I know things always move on but I have been changed too much. What has Sam told you of the Ring?”

He still had not opened his eyes, nor had he pulled back the tray. Both tea and porridge were going cold and Rosie sighed at yet another failed attempt to get him to eat.

“It’s not easy to get Sam to talk about it, especially the time at the end.”

Frodo nodded. “It was hard, and Sam took a great deal of the burden, looking after both of us. It wasn’t the journey, though. You see, the ring was not just some piece of jewellery. If you think of it as a living thing you are closer to grasping its nature. A living, evil thing.” He swallowed, as if trying to stop himself being sick. “It got inside me, Rosie. It became a part of me. At the end I think it was almost the whole of me.” 

She watched him closely. His face was growing paler and his hand reached for the chain that always hung around his neck. 

“When it was taken it tore a piece of me away with it. Not the finger, a piece of my soul. Even with Sam, and you here,” he opened his eyes to look at her now, “I will never be whole again. A bit of me went into the fire with the ring and I cannot replace it.” 

His voice was drained and flat and Rosie found herself staring into eyes that had seen too many things that they would rather forget. Much more than any sensible hobbit had a right to have seen. The room was cooling again and she decided to give herself something to do as she considered her next course of action, slipping from the chair to put more wood on the fire. Rosie dare not look too long into those haunted eyes so she brushed the hearth and re-arranged the logs as she spoke.

“So, what are you going to do now? You can’t turn back the clock. Will you try to end it again, and take us with you, Elanor and all?” She could not fight back the bitterness as she thought of Sam, asleep in the parlour, their daughter held close in his strong arms. Would Frodo really try to destroy her family again? With one final prod of the fire Rosie turned back to the bed, trying to still the anxious fluttering of her stomach.

Frodo seemed to have calmed, his eyes showing a little more light, but he was still fingering the crystal on its fine chain about his neck. Sam told her that it was an elven jewel, a gift from Queen Arwen herself, but Rosie had seen it only once when she helped Sam put Frodo to bed. She secretly thought it looked a little too ornate for a gentlehobbit but she would not dream of telling him so. Perhaps that was why he always kept it under his shirt. Rosie suspected there was probably more to it than a simple piece of jewellery. She returned to the chair at his bedside, waiting for him to speak.

“There is another option, Rosie, but if I take it I can never return.” There was silence for a moment. Rosie waited for him to continue but he seemed to be listening to something or someone a long way off, his fingers idly rolling the Lady Arwen’s gift between finger and thumb. She had to strain to hear his voice. 

“When Arwen bound herself to Aragorn she gave up her elven immortality and her place on the boats sailing to the Undying Lands. She gave me this, saying that I may go in her stead, if I desired. She said, ‘If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed.’ Then she gave me the jewel I wear around my neck and said, ‘When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid.’

He drew out the clear stone on its fine silver chain and stared at it, looking deep into its shimmering depths. “It has helped, but the darkness is growing so deep now. I cannot go on. It seems to me that I have only two options, to end it as I tried the other night or to take a ship to the Undying Lands, in the hopes that I may be healed there, in time.” Frodo let the jewel fall.

“And there lies my problem. If I go to the Undying Lands I will be leaving all my friends and the places that I love behind. If I find no healing I will truly have nothing. If I do find healing it may take many years and I will not be allowed to return. I want to see the Shire flourishing again. I want to see your children grow up.” Tears gathered within the borders of his bottom lashes and his voice quavered. “I don’t know what to do.”

Rosie slipped her warm fingers around his cold left hand. “I think you do know what to do, Frodo. You, of all people, have always known the right thing to do and you have always had the strength to do it, despite what you try to tell yourself.” 

When he would have stopped her she shook his hand gently. “You are the wisest hobbit I’ve ever known. Oh, I don’t mean book learned wisdom. I mean heart wisdom” She reached out a tentative hand and laid it over his breastbone, feeling for herself the little bump of Arwen’s jewel beneath his shirt. “You say your heart was damaged by this ring and I can’t say, no. I can see the result of that hurt, sitting in the bed before me. But, even now, you have the purist heart I know, apart from my Sam of course.” She tried a smile and was relieved to see it dimly echoed in his face.

Frodo’s chin quivered and he tilted his face to the ceiling, trying to hold back the flood of tears threatening to overpower him again. A small cry escaped as he lost the battle and Rosie rushed forward to enfold him, comforting her friend as she had her husband only hours earlier, while deep sobs wracked his frame. When he was spent, she eased him back amongst the pillows and wiped the salty tracks on his face with the corner of her apron. 

He smiled again. “Oh, Rosie Gamgee. You’re right. I do know. I was just hoping that some miracle would happen and there would be another choice. But there isn’t. Sam is so lucky to have you. You call me wise but you’re wiser. Will you fetch me pen and paper? Please. I need to get a letter to Lord Elrond, at Rivendell.”

“Of course I will, Frodo.” She crossed to his small desk to retrieve the writing materials.

“And Rosie?”

“Yes, Frodo?”

“Don’t tell Sam about the letter. I don’t want him to know about my decision until it’s time to leave. It is not yet his time to follow me. He is needed and loved here.”

“I won’t tell him. And I thank you.” Rosie handed him paper, pen and ink and lifted the forgotten tray. “I’ll go and get you some warm breakfast, while you write. Then I’ll take your letter down to the post office myself.”

 

THE END


End file.
